


the fires find a home in me

by sevener



Series: bone. hand. river. flame. [1]
Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Original Work
Genre: M/M, Magic, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 16:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21305231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevener/pseuds/sevener
Summary: There was a stranger in the cave, half-hidden in the dark.
Relationships: OMC/OMC, Rune Ulfarson/Varr Geirson
Series: bone. hand. river. flame. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535981
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	the fires find a home in me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Lorde's Yellow Flicker Beat.

There was a stranger in the cave, half-hidden in the dark.

Varr could make out the bare edge of a dirty cloak —white, undyed— and a tangle of hair —black, unkempt— but he could not see the the stranger’s face through the thickness of shadows. 

Varr crouched by the mouth of the cave. It was unclear wether the stranger could see him, either. The man in the cave did not make a sound. The dirty hem of his cloak was stained with a single drop of blood.

“Hello?” tried Varr. “Are you alright in there?”

His voice echoed off the walls of the cave. It was much deeper than it appeared. Varr wondered if the man was living in it. It was possible that he was simply a vagrant or a nomad, perhaps even a shaman from the Eastern provinces wandering in the midst of great spiritual travels. 

It was possible, but Varr hunted these woods every other day. He had not seen trace of the man until just this morning, when the heavy fall of unknown feet had frightened the deer he’d been about to bring down. Far likelier, Varr thought, that the man was a fugitive. A criminal, or an escaped slave.

There was a crunching sound - the stranger shifting his weight on the dry ground - and then a single, weary sigh issued from the darkness.

“Yes, I am fine thank you.”

The voice was deep and masculine, his Norse flawless but for the slight hint of an accent that Varr couldn’t quite place. 

Varr set down his bow.

“You’re bleeding,” he called back. “Let me help you.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the stranger, but the man’s purposes in the cave were still suspect. From here it was barely an hour’s journey to the outskirts of Threkeld - much too close for comfort. To leave now, as if he hadn’t seen anything, left open too many possibilities - not least of which that the man might well follow him back, desperate for food, or something bloodier.

There was a sudden movement from the shadows of the cave. Varr’s hand twitched instinctively to his hunting knife as the man leaned forward out into view, but the stranger stopped short at a distance. He settled back harmlessly, over an arm’s length away from Varr still. 

The stranger was wild and unruly. His black hair had mostly escaped from what must have once been a braid: it now tangled down to the tops of his shoulders, matted through with enough dirt and leaves that it fairly resembled the forest floor. His scruffy black beard didn’t look much better, and did little to disguise the gauntness of his sallow cheeks. Varr noted the sunburnt nose, the cracked, dry lips, upturned into a smirk as if Varr’s defensive reaction had amused him.

Most striking of all were the man’s eyes. Bright and alive, twinned blue flames that burned through with determination and spirit. If Varr had at all been expecting a broken, desperate man to emerge from the darkness, this stranger was certainly the furthest thing from it.

The man adjusted himself slightly as Varr stared, pulling his large wool cloak tighter to his body. The creamy white wool covered the entire length of him, down to his toes - an odd luxury to bring on a trek through the forest. The hem of the garment was thoroughly stained through with dirt. 

“You need not concern yourself with me,” said the man in a placating voice. “I was only resting for a moment. I will be gone again by nightfall.” 

He moved carefully as he came up on his knees to kneel before Varr, keeping the cloak draped so that only his face was exposed, his hands hidden, the white hood already pulled up to the crown of his head.

Varr frowned at the man, gazing critically at his weathered face. 

“You are running from something.”

It wasn’t a question. The man gave Varr a long, piercing look, then inclined his head very slightly in answer.

“You are not very good at it,” observed Varr. 

The man’s mouth twitched, and a single eyebrow raised in askance.

“You are clearly starving,” Varr explained. “You move loudly and slowly. Your cloak drags behind you, giving you away even before eyes may spot you. And, worst of all,” Varr paused and allowed one side of his mouth to tick up in amusement, “You smell like an unwashed pig. Wherever you run, they will smell you for miles before and after.”

The man did not laugh, but conceded only the barest smile, a tight twitch of his lips. Reluctant, or perhaps just unused to the motion.

“I concede your point. There is not much for washing out here.”

Varr smiled back at him, hoping to appear trustworthy enough that the man would reveal himself further. He reached into his small pack and withdrew a bundle wrapped in linen, folding back one corner to show the man its contents: half a loaf of bread, three small plums, and a thick cut of salted meat.

It was only because Varr was watching very closely that he saw how the corners of those stark blue eyes tightened slightly. The rest of the stranger’s face was still like carved stone. He didn’t so much as twitch forward at the sight of the food, the set of his shoulders remaining deliberately loose and relaxed beneath his cloak.

The man’s pale eyes cut back to Varr. His gaze bore no difference - it burned, but with a hunger that was old and familiar - worn, like a favourite pair of boots. It didn’t strain the man to hold his desire in check.

“Tell me what it is you run from,” said Varr. “and I’ll share with you my meal.”

The smirk reappeared on the man’s face, his chin jutting out in challenge, “Share?”

Varr sighed theatrically, inwardly pleased by the man’s demand: it showed trust enough to ask.

“Fine, the whole thing, since you’re so terribly skinny.”

The man inclined his head silently once again and shifted forward, his hands moving beneath the cloak. Varr was just about to pull away, to insist that the man explain first, when the stranger’s hands finally came into view.

Varr simply stared.

The man held his hands out before him, clasped tight together on his knees. 

It recalled a position often adopted by the Saxon thralls of his village, the pose they used to pray to their one and foreign God; kneeling forwards in the dirt, with their hands held out clasped in supplication. Varr thought again that the man must be an escaped slave. 

It seemed an odd enough time to entreat the Gods, but the man didn’t mutter any desperate pleas the way Saxons usually did in this ritual, and he didn’t look at all to be of their stock. He was thick-set and dark like a Rus, but clothed in the dressings of a Norse freeman; fine trousers and a purple wool jacket adorned with intricate threading, though they were visibly distressed from time spent outdoors.

It took only a moment for Varr to finally notice - the man’s fingers were in fact _laced_ together tightly, bound over and between with a thick, blood red twine.

The incomprehensible knots were intricate, tracing up from his wrists over and under his knuckles, a different loop demarcating every joint of the man’s fingers. The red lines of the rope cut deep valleys into his flesh, the skin between squeezed pale and bloodless. Varr stared silently in bewilderment.

“The mark of a thief.”

Varr’s gaze jumped back up to find the man watching him carefully. 

“This is the punishment for stealing, where I come from,” the man said calmly.

Varr’s eyebrows raised, “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

The man shrugged. When he smiled, there was an edge to it; sardonic. “Very few who receive this punishment survive to reach this country.”

Varr looked again at the stranger’s hands; the irritated, pinched flesh of his knuckles, the thinness of his wrists. The twine looked a bit looser there, like he’d been better fed when the knots had been tied.

“You must have stolen something great,” observed Varr. “To merit such a death sentence.”

The man’s eyes hardened instantly, blue water freezing over, “I believe you struck a bargain for one answer, only.”

Varr looked away, down at the food in his lap.

“You are able to eat?” he had to ask, glancing back to the man’s bound hands. His thumbs were tied down flat with the rest of his fingers.

“Not with any dignity,” the man replied simply. He gave a pointed look towards the food that Varr was still holding.

Varr smiled, remembering with a hint of shame that he was trying to mollify the man, and passed over the bundle, setting it in the dirt near the man’s knees. What an odd morning this had turned into.

The man leaned forward and awkwardly picked up the bread between his wrists, able to just barely pry the bottom of his palms apart with the slack there. In careful movements he slowly raised the loaf to his mouth and tore off a huge bite with his teeth. The man’s tangled black hair fell forward during the effort, half obscuring his face, but Varr managed to glimpse a touch of satisfaction in the man’s eyes as he ate.

Varr watched silently as the bread and half the meat was devoured, then as the man struggled with a plum. Oddly, the man showed no signs of frustration throughout the entire meal, though it was clear that the simple task of eating was not easy for him like this. 

The thin ropes cinched tighter every time he flexed his wrists, chafing at the skin there. The bindings shifted with his movements, and Varr saw that the flesh underneath was red and raw, scabbed over in some places and freshly blooded in others. It occurred to him with a sick twist that the twine had likely been white when the knots had first been tied.

Varr’s hand went again to the knife on his belt. 

“I could cut you free,” he said, unthinking.

The man’s head lifted abruptly. The glare of his blue eyes was pure reprimand, despite the haphazard veil of his hair and the plum juice dripping down into his beard.

“You pity me?” asked the stranger, bluntly.

Varr opened his mouth to deny it, but his voice froze in his throat. He was unsure what answer to give.

“You are a friend to criminals then?” continued the man, not waiting for Varr to decide. “Or perhaps I’ve already gotten ahead of myself. You may simply be a man of opportunity, yet to name your price.”

The man smiled, dry lips stretching over bared teeth, splitting the brittle skin open again. “What will it be? I’m sure you’ve noticed I have very little to my name at the moment. Would you cut my hands free for the mere pleasure of tightening your own noose round my throat?”

“I -” Varr started, still uncertain, but sure he wanted to interrupt the man, to stop that voice in its cruel tones. “I did not mean to imply- I mean it’s not that I find it pitiful… I meant only to offer a- a kindness.”

“You meant only to offer a _kindness_ to a complete _stranger_?” The man said incredulously. “Worse! An unknown criminal. One whose crimes were so heinous he was exiled, sentenced to die a slow, merciless death.” 

The man laughed without a trace of humour. “And from the very tenderest depths of your heart, no doubt, asking nothing in return.”

“You- ”

“I could be a liar, as well as a thief,” the man barged on, eyes blazing with something almost like anger, though his voice remained tight and controlled, cutting. “You know nothing of me. I could be a murderer, a sadist, a rapist- ”

“Enough!” shouted Varr. 

The man finally closed his mouth, looking grimly pleased.

“It is true that I know nothing of you,” said Varr, forcing his voice to be calm. “But I cannot believe that you are as cruel or dishonourable as you say. Would not a dangerous criminal take the first opportunity to lie and convince me he is a good man, so as to trick me into helping him?”

The man gave a small, rueful smile, “Perhaps I’m gambling on a double bluff. I could have anticipated you would rightfully see through my first lie.”

“Maybe,” allowed Varr. “Though in pointing out the ruse you are again ruining your own scheme.”

The man looked like he had another argument for that, but Varr didn’t let him start.

“In my own village,” he said. “Only the most heinous crimes are punished by exile. To be banished, left without land nor kin, is an unthinkable fate. Worse, for some, than execution: in either case, one leaves their living family without hope of restitution. One leaves oneself without a name. To live always remembering what they once had.”

“Yet, even in exile, the kinless are free to flee. To begin a new life, if they can survive it, on their own merit. It is understood that the price has already been payed.”

“These… bindings,” Varr gestured to the man’s hands. “Seem only to me an unnecessary cruelty. That was all I meant by it. If you do not wish to be freed, you may say so.”

The man didn’t look convinced by Varr’s words. In fact, Varr noticed abruptly, the man was no longer even kneeling. He’d gotten his feet under him, with the food parcel tucked safely into his belt loop. Ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

“And if I wish to have them removed,” the man challenged, drawing Varr’s attention back to his face. “I suppose I need only say so?”

Varr looked at him. The hard set of his mouth, the tiny tremors that ran through his thighs. The way he held himself proud even as he crouched uncomfortably, back straight and shoulders square.

“Your name.”

The man blinked, “Pardon?”

“Tell me your name,” said Varr, fingering the hilt of his hunting knife. “And I’ll cut you free.”

“That doesn’t seem like a fair bargain,” argued the man. Varr shrugged.

“It’s what I want. You’ll argue my price?”

The stranger shook his head, frowning. For the first time in their interaction the other man seemed uncertain.

“You don’t trust that I am a man of my word,” Varr couldn’t help the offended growl that crept into his voice.

The man took a half a step back at the sound, suddenly seething again. “Why should I trust a single thing-”

Varr stood up abruptly, grabbing his bow out of the dirt and shouldering his rucksack roughly, annoyed. 

“Why in Ódinn’s name should I waste sunlight arguing a stubborn nag who’s only pleasure in life may be to spurn freedom?” He turned on a heel.

The man watched his outburst in silence, that unnerving calm settling over him again. Varr gave him one last look and was annoyed even further to find the man had one smug eyebrow raised, as if he’d come out the victor in this idiotic encounter.

Varr huffed and turned his back, resisting the urge to spit or stomp like an ill-tempered child. He’d already given up most of the morning hunt talking to this obstinate stranger, but there was no sense scaring off any more precious game by crashing through the forest.

He’d barely made it ten paces before he felt a rush of wind behind him, the hairs at the nape of his neck standing up. The sharp, deadly prick of a knife blade nudged just underneath his last rib.

Varr sucked in a sharp breath.

“You should never turn your back on a desperate man,” hissed the stranger, too close to Varr’s ear. “Much less a starving, hunted criminal.”

Varr closed his eyes as the knife dug in deeper, piercing the wool of his jacket but stopping just short of breaking skin. The man was weak and debilitated by his restrains, but he’d calculated his attack well - with only one swift plunge the knife would pierce through Varr’s soft side to his stomach, possibly reaching his lungs. He’d be dead in minutes, if not seconds.

“Careless,” decided the stranger. 

Incomprehensibly, Varr felt the blade retreat from his side, just as quick as it had come, and the heat of the man at his back disappeared with it. Varr spun around quickly, heart racing.

The man was on his feet, already three paces back from Varr and out of reach. His white cloak was parted around his shoulders, revealing a wickedly sharp hunting knife gripped awkwardly between bound fists. 

Varr’s hand went to his belt quickly, finding his own knife still safely tucked away. The man had been armed the entire time.

“You let your emotions cloud your judgement,” remarked the man casually, blue eyes flashing with satisfaction. “Your sympathy prevented you from properly assessing me as a threat, and your frustration led you to act rashly when it most mattered - when your enemy finally revealed himself.”

Varr could only stare at the man in speechless bewilderment. Ódinn help him, he was being lectured primly on defence strategy by a criminal who’d just held his life at knifepoint.

Varr felt his face screw up in indignation, “Why not just kill me then?”

The man laughed, once, and for the first time he seemed genuinely light-hearted, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Why, because I need you to untie me,” the man smiled. 

Before Varr could blink the man moved his hands, sending the knife flipping through the air in a flashing arc before he caught it again in a surprisingly elegant move. He held the blade pressed between his palms, hilt extended towards Varr, who was trying his best not to look impressed despite himself.

“My name is Rune,” said the man, taking a single, careful step closer.

_Named for a secret_, thought Varr, with a hint of bitterness, _how fitting. _

Varr raised his eyebrows expectantly, unmoving, and it took Rune a moment to figure out what he was waiting for.

“Rune Ulfarson,” he finished finally.

_A Norseman then, _noted Varr, _or at least the son of one. _He wondered where Rune’s dark colouring might have come from - not to mention the odd customs of his land of residence, and the slight accent.

“Tell me, Rune Ulfarson, why should I untie a man- or, as you say, a criminal, who has already perfectly demonstrated his ability to kill me?” Varr asked, even as he allowed Rune to close more distance between them by a pace or two. 

“Aside from the fact that I spared your life,” Rune said airily, “I was led to believe that you were a man of your word, and I do believe I’ve already fulfilled _my_ end of the bargain.” 

His tone was matter of fact, without a trace of humour or condescension, but Varr still felt a prickle of annoyance stab under his skin at the underhanded play.

“I think anyone would agree that you broke honour between us first. I don’t owe you anything.”

Varr was hoping that his words would get a rise out of the other man, seeing as Rune apparently _did_ need Varr to set him free, but Rune only shrugged.

“I did try to warn you it wasn’t a fair price,” he pointed out, “and I believe I said something to the effect of not trusting mere strangers, but if you’d like to go back on our deal I guess there’s really nothing I can do to stop you.”

Varr groaned, aware that he was being played, but still unable to resist the implied slight against his own honour. As much as he regretted it, a deal was a deal. And it had been Varr’s offer in the first place - his terms.

“Fine,” he barked, gesturing Rune closer with a hand. “Come here you scoundrel and let’s be done with it.”

A tiny, delighted smile appeared at the corner of Rune’s dry lips. _Scoundrel, _he mouthed to himself, though he hastened over without further quip or complaint.

Rune held the knife out to Varr again, who simply raised an eyebrow and reached for his own blade.

“No,” said Rune quickly. “It has to be this one. Please.”

For a moment they both seemed surprised at his sudden emphatic plea, then Varr straightened with suspicion. “Why?”

This close, Varr noticed that they were actually of a height. Varr himself was no small man. The stranger’s underfed wrists had made him seem much slighter. 

“It’s… a special kind of rope,” explained Rune. “It can only be severed by this blade, though not by my hand, it appears.”

Varr’s eyebrows shot up - the man couldn’t seriously be implying that his restraints were… _enchanted?_

He looked again at Rune’s hands. Framed between the thin lines of the rope, he could see an alarming number of cuts marring Rune’s pale skin, ranging from mere scratches to one deep, ugly gash underneath Rune’s left thumb. Failed attempts to free himself.

“How do you know it’ll work at all then?” Varr asked numbly, too shocked even to question _why _the rope was spelled in the first place. It seemed a bit of overkill, this sentence. 

“Trade secret,” Rune said. “I’m far from the only thief to have landed himself in this predicament.”

Varr gave him a look. Rune’s face stayed carefully light. Certain he wasn’t getting anything more, Varr finally reached for the knife, careful not to cut Rune’s palms as he pulled it free. Like drawing sword from a sheath. The handle of the dagger was sturdy and smooth - carved bone, polished to a pristine shine. He felt the slight indented shapes of carvings underneath his thumb. Clearly ceremonial then, but he couldn’t make sense of their meaning when he looked. The few that were familiar appeared to be written backwards or upside-down. Rune was just watching him.

“Here.” Varr put his free hand on Rune’s shoulder and walked them over to the edge of the cave. Rune sat himself on the large, flat rock near the entrance while Varr set down his pack once again, and knelt between Rune’s legs. 

He reached out to steady Rune’s clasped fists with his free hand and quickly had to hide his shock at the icy feel of Rune’s skin. Varr wondered wether the man’s hands could even recover from this magnitude of abuse. The thought settled in his stomach like lead.

_Focus, _he thought, shaking himself, _you’re never even going to see this man again, just get it over with. _

“Ready?” he asked, unnecessarily. Rune had probably been ready for this since the moment he’d been bound, but he nodded his assent without further comment. 

Aside from the odd runes carved into the handle the knife was rather plain, with a wicked, curving edge to its blade. Varr slid the flat of it under the first knot at Rune’s wrist and flipped the sharp edge up against it.

The ropes were thin, more like twine or yarn than proper cord, and the knife was as sharp as anything, but when Varr slid the blade against the bindings they didn’t give out. The fibres held. Varr increased his efforts, grunting, and he again braced Rune’s wrist with his free hand - as much for protection as for leverage. 

Varr grit his teeth. He was gripping the knife so hard that his hand ached now, his arm straining, and he thought with a surge of alarm that the ropes really might not sever after all. He glanced up at Rune, gaze catching on those burning blue eyes, savagely determined, and all other thought left his mind. Varr suddenly knew the bindings would give - they had to, there was no way they wouldn’t.

An unnaturally loud _snap!_ echoed in the silence of the forest, and Varr nearly toppled backwards as the tension suddenly gave. He stared, uncomprehending, at the severed ends of the twine, dangling loose and inert around Rune’s wrist.

“What in Freyja’s name was that?” Varr demanded, glaring at the knife in his hand. He drew his thumb over the blade, testing the whetted edge and finding it razor-sharp.

“I was never going to kill you, wasn’t even really threatening to,” Rune gasped nonsensically. For some reason he was breathing just as hard as Varr was. “I was just making a point, and. I needed to know,”

“Know what?” pushed Varr, weary now of all the mystery.

Rune met his eyes evenly, “Exactly what kind of a man had found me.”

Varr didn’t understand the sudden warmth that choked suddenly at his throat.

“To break this bind is no easy task,” Rune said. “It takes a great strength of will. A firmness of purpose. It is more than a simple kindness between strangers. Much more - and on my part as well. It will very likely take all of my strength to complete this trial. I needed to know something of your … nature, beforehand.”

Varr blinked. Certainly, this was the strangest day of his life. 

“And you gathered all of this from a single conversation with me? You don’t even know my name!”

Rune smiled sheepishly, “I took a gamble where I wasn’t completely certain, and I was lucky it payed off. In the end you weren’t wrong - I am not very good at running, and I don’t much care for it besides.

You’ve already done far more than you needed to, and I’m not sure I have anything left to bargain with,” continued Rune. “But if you’d grant me the pleasure of knowing your name, I would be sincerely honoured.”

“Oh _now _you deign to have good manners,” complained Varr. “How convenient.” He held his expression of annoyance for only another moment before letting it drop away, seeing that Rune was clearly unconvinced.

“It’s Varr Geirson, of Threkeld.”

“Varr Geirson of Threkeld” Rune said, smiling faintly. “But you are entirely of your own.”

Varr frowned at him, but Rune didn’t elaborate. He held his hands out helpfully.

Varr’s attention drew down again, and he repositioned himself closer between the other man’s knees. “It’ll be easier now,” Rune murmured. “I’ve heard the first one is the hardest.”

Varr huffed out a laugh despite himself and slid the knife under the next knot, this one tight against the base of Rune’s hand. He worked himself up to a sweat again, straining until the twine snapped apart. Rune hissed out a breath at the release, and Varr had to pull gently at the loose ends to unstick the bloody threads from his abraded skin. Everywhere that the bindings came away revealed the same sore lacerations, a mirror impression of the complicated knots carved into his skin, as if he might never be free of the red ropes.

The task slowly became easier as the bindings loosened, though not without toll. By the time Varr slid the knife against the last tight knot Rune was slumped over, barely clinging to consciousness. The rusty string cut apart easily, as fragile as any old kitchen twine. 

“There we go,” announced Varr, finally unfolding from his kneeling position. The sun had dipped past its peak in the sky, closer to mid afternoon than morning. Varr barely spared a thought for the kill he’d missed today, though he’d have to return tomorrow to make up for it.

Varr frowned as he saw Rune’s eyes flutter, his breaths coming fast and laboured still. 

“Well that’s hardly comforting, you’re in a worse state now than when I found you!” said Varr, bending back down to meet Rune’s eyes, pass a hand over his sweaty forehead.

Rune managed to bring an unsteady hand up, trying to wave Varr off. His fingers were partially curled in on themselves, still stuck in an awkward claw shape. 

“M’fine,” Rune slurred, listing over in his attempt to stand.

Varr caught him as he stumbled, fine white wool slide soft underneath his palms. Rune’s body felt unnervingly weightless in his grip, his sharp elbows digging in right above Varr’s belt buckle.

“Easy,” said Varr gently. “You can barely stand.”

He adjusted his grip to take more of Rune’s weight in one arm, and brought his left hand up to gently cradle one of Rune’s freezing hands, pressing tentatively at a bent finger. Rune sucked in a sharp breath and flinched hard, nearly causing Varr to drop him entirely. He was certainly a lot stronger than he looked, even in this state.

“Just put me down you brute, you’ve done enough,” Rune hissed, clearly trying for acidic but missing the mark by a mile on account of how his body went limp and helpless a moment later. It was oddly endearing, and despite his concern over the man’s state Varr found himself suppressing a laugh at Rune’s stubbornness.

“You need rest now,” Varr said softly, using his free hand to push Rune’s unwieldy hair from his face, smoothing it behind his ear. It would be better if he could comb it through: wash out the dirt and grime. “Proper rest.”

Rune’s eyes fluttered open, their icy blueness startling Varr all over again. He barred his teeth in a weak grimace as he found the strength for his voice. 

“Would you cut my hands free for the mere pleasure of tightening your own noose about my throat?” Rune’s eyes deadly cold and serious.

“Just one night of rest, you have my word,” Varr swore, and he meant it. 

He had no interest in wrestling a collar onto a wild thing, found no pleasure in taming the light from bright eyes, and besides, Rune was no animal. He was a man, forever free to make his own destiny, free to choose. Though Varr was certain he could never make Rune bend to his will, it barely mattered: incidental to the fact that he would never try.

Rune hummed, lips twisting up into a smile, “You can't blame me for not believing you; we've known each other for mere hours and already you’re set to carry me off like the spoils of war.”

Varr chuckled and hefted Rune in his arms, swinging his feet up. Rune’s hands came instinctively around Varr’s neck, curled oddly so as not to jostle his tender fingers. 

Rune twisted halfheartedly, barely resisting, but Varr tightened his grip all the same. He was careful not to squeeze. “Has anyone ever told you you are as a stubborn as an old nag?”

Rune feigned a thoughtful look, as if struggling to recall. “I believe it’s been said once or twice.”

⌘⌘⌘

You are no thief.

It’s in your eyes. There’s a hunger there, always. 

A thief is used to wanting, but it is difficult for him. He hungers, and it drives him to take the things he wants, to want the things he might take. Perhaps, every once in a while, he thirsts for something forbidden, and it burns in him, but if he is smart he will sate himself on the things he knows he can have.

Your hunger is of a different kind: it settles over you like a well-worn cloak, yours to own. You are always wanting, always hungry. You never reach out for it. It is enough to want. Want with every part of your soul, and to deny yourself. Control. That is something you own, have staked your claim to, has staked its claim into you.

You know true hunger, and you’ve made your bed in it. You sleep wrapped in it day and night. It sustains you when you are empty and it takes from you when you are full. It scares you sometimes, to think of how you will never part from it, that you wouldn’t know how to part from it.

A thief could never know this kind of hunger. Never survive it. He’d be consumed by it, the wanting, until it took his sense and good judgement, until he convinced himself he could take it, the thing he can never have. Until it made him a fool.

You are no fool.

⌘⌘⌘

**Author's Note:**

> *Rune means "secret" in Old Norse  
Varr means "foresighted"
> 
> As the epilogue implies I definitely have more ideas for this 'verse. Remains to be seen wether I'll ever finish them.  
Comments and kudos appreciated, thanks for reading!


End file.
